'The Jews got up a cry that Hierax wanted to raise a riot. Curse
them and their sabbath, they are always rioting on Saturdays about
this dancer of theirs, instead of working like honest Christians!'

'And rioting on Sunday instead. Ahem! sectarian differences, which
the philosopher--

The rest of the sentence disappeared with the speaker, as a sudden
opening of the mob let him drop, and buried him under innumerable
legs.

Philammon, furious at the notion of persecution, maddened by the
cries around him, found himself bursting fiercely through the crowd,
till he reached the front ranks, where tall gates of open ironwork
barred all farther progress, but left a full view of the tragedy
which was enacting within, where the poor innocent wretch, suspended
from a gibbet, writhed and shrieked at every stroke of the hide
whips of his tormentors.

In vain Philammon and the monks around him knocked and beat at the
gates; they were only answered by laughter and taunts from the
apparitors within, curses on the turbulent mob of Alexandria, with
its patriarch, clergy, saints, and churches, and promises to each
and all outside, that their turn would come next; while the piteous
screams grew fainter and more faint, and at last, with a convulsive
shudder, motion and suffering ceased for ever in the poor mangled
body.

'They have killed him! Martyred him! Back to the archbishop! To
the patriarch's house: he will avenge us!' And as the horrible